by Fred Rochlin
Crude and often nonsensical, these stories of Rochlin's WWII experiences were written as monologues for his one-man show. In his 70s, Rochlin, a former B-24 navigator, took a storytelling workshop with Spalding Gray, and this is the result. Noting that the older I get, the more I remember things that never happened, he tells eight tales of varying credibility and tastelessness. In the title story, Rochlin, nicknamed Rockets, bails out over Yugoslavia, suffering a fractured jaw and broken ribs. Rescued by partisans, he is, without explanation, cheerfully asked to execute three German prisoners. His only comment: It didn't take any courage, you just pulled a trigger.'' His escort for the 400-kilometer stroll back to Italy, the earthy Maruska, following dual bouts of diarrhea, asks, You think I no beautiful? I don't want to die virgin. Why don't you put your hand on my siski?'' Following the first night of fig-fig,'' he complained his hooey was on fire and it started to drip stuff.'' Seve
V. E. Schwab
Alex Popa
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